by Amy Waeschle
Zach couldn’t get Dana out of his mind. She was losing weight, either from not eating or running so much he wasn’t sure. Evan had been clear: I need to find my way, and I need to do it alone.
Once Evan stopped returning her calls, Dana drove to his work site at the boatyard, only to find he had quit weeks before. She tried his friends, the skate park, the grocery store, the coffee shop, even put up signs around town. That had been more than a month ago. And every day she waited for him to call messed with her head that much more.
Why couldn’t she see what she was doing to herself?
If only she would come to the house, see what he was creating for them. He imagined her soft brown eyes filling with wonder as he gave her the tour: their bedroom with the forest view and built-in shelves for all of her books, the open-style kitchen with lots of light, Jessie’s special loft room, and the guest room for when Evan was ready to visit.
Right now, it all felt so futile.
If Dana was still undecided by December, he would sell it, move back to his old apartment. A cold lump of grief lodged in his chest, and he gasped for a breath. He closed his eyes tight but the image that popped up only made it worse: Jessie. How could he possibly explain such a thing to her?
“You alright, bro?” Brody asked as they sped toward a residential home for a medical emergency. Their steady pace had continued throughout the afternoon so that they had missed lunch, instead munching down energy bars and slurping cold, leftover coffee. It was almost dinnertime and Zach wondered if this was going to be one of those shifts where they never made it inside the fire station.
Zach shifted in his seat. “Yeah.”
“That ring still in your console?” he asked.
Zach clenched his hands into fists.
“She’ll come around, man, you’ll see.” Brody pulled into the driveway and the two hopped out. Zach retrieved the med kit and the two hurried to the front door, where an elderly woman was waving them inside.
Once inside the home, he and Brody treated an eighty-year-old male who had taken a fall, the wife holding his hand the whole time. Zach took in the couple’s pictures on the walls showing beach sunsets and European vacations, their children and grandchildren. The man’s wounds would heal, allowing them many more years together.
Would he and Dana ever look back on a life like that?
Sometime in the night, he woke to the tones followed by the female voice requesting units. His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton and he caught only the request for the medic unit. Moments later he was auto-piloting into his clothes and boots and jogging down the stairs to the truck bay.
He joined up with Brody who had the rig running. Engine 71 was pulling out of the station.
“What have we got?” Zach asked.
“Domestic,” Brody replied as they followed the engine.
Zach pursed his lips to inhale a long, slow breath as a sense of dread worked its way into his pores. He tried to mentally prepare for the kind of scene they were heading towards but his focus was fuzzy after their brutal day. “Where?” he asked.
“Alder Grove.”
The Grove was a trailer park located at the top of a broad hill in a wooded, damp hollow. He wondered if every town had a Grove.
Port Angeles certainly did, he knew. He’d grown up there.
Inside the trailer park, moss-covered roofs and weedy yards with rusty vehicles went by in a blur as they followed the flashing red lights to the far end of a dead-end street. Brody parked the ambulance in front of a low white trailer with thin white curtains drawn across the windows. The rotating red lights washed over a lowered Ford pickup in the driveway.
“I’ve been here before,” Zach said slowly, but Brody was already at the back of the rig.
Zach joined Brody just as thick-chested Officer Mike Brewer trotted over. “A neighbor made the call.” He nodded at the house. “Scene’s secure. Ready?” Mike gave them a stoic gaze. Zach slipped on his nitrile gloves and nodded.
Brody handed him the med kit and they followed Brewer into the house. A smell of mildew and stale cooking oil hit Zach’s nostrils. To the right, the small kitchen was lit by a pale glow from the above-range light. Even from this distance, Zach could see that the appliance hadn’t been cleaned in some time—the white dials dingy and a red-brown stain from some kind of sauce trailing down to the oven’s glass door which was thick with grease. The once-white refrigerator handle was brown, and the Formica floor in front of it looked warped from negligence. Several squares were missing, revealing bare, weathered floorboards with dark water stains. Fake wood paneling encased the cupboards, one of which had been removed to reveal a gaping, jagged hole with drywall dust sprinkled on the thin carpet in front of it. It was even worse than the last time he’d been here. He spotted a pile of dirty dishes in the sink and water damage along the backsplash.
The low ceiling tiles seemed to press on Zach. He forced himself to stand up tall—he was here to help someone, not take a trip down memory lane.
Behind a half-wall partition, Zach saw a tall, lean man with dark, longish hair being cuffed by an officer. Another officer stood close, reading him his rights. Behind him sagged a soft brown couch and a wide sliding glass door, reflecting the man and his escorts. Zach could see his face had changed since the last time but couldn’t place the cause—alcohol again or something worse. Meth? His eyes flashed hot at Zach like an accusation. Zach turned away.
He followed Brody and Mike down a dark, wood-paneled hallway lined with waist-high piles of magazines and newspapers. Parts of a broken chair littered their path; Zach passed a box of used engine parts and a pile of ratty, grease-stained towels. He noticed the water-stained ceiling tiles above him, lit by the bare bulb in the middle of the hallway. Zach heard voices. No—crying.
“He’s down here,” Mike said.
Zach refocused on following Mike. At the end of the hall, a female cop talked with a woman wrapped tightly in a faded blue robe. The woman was leaning forward on a spindly wooden chair, her fingers laced through her greasy blonde mop as she cried softly. Mike stopped at the first doorway where another cop was posted. Zach nodded at him and entered the room.
Zach recognized the boy. He had been here before. The boy had been beaten: a broken nose, a black eye. He had been curled into a ball under his bed, his eyes glazed with terror. It was the same house, the same dad.
The boy was older now—fourteen? Fifteen?—and sat on a sagging bed covered by a ribbed, tan comforter. The room’s contents were strewn about—a broken lamp, comic books, a skateboard, a trampled poster. The boy looked shrunken, hugging his arm, which Zach could see had been dislocated at the shoulder, his thin t-shirt torn at the neck. Zach noticed the cigarette burn scars on the insides of his bicep and knew that the boy’s other arm would have matching marks. A wave of rage seared him from within, but Zach talked himself down with a hard, full breath. The boy’s eyes stayed focused on the threadbare carpet.
Slowly, Zach approached the boy and knelt in front of him. At that level he got a hit from the mildewed floorboards and unwashed sheets, and for a second, he remembered what it felt like, after Phil or Wes or Barry finished, after the explosion of fury that always came out of nowhere. He remembered not so much the physical pain, but the fear. The not knowing when it was going to stop or when it was going to happen again: in the middle of the night? On a Saturday afternoon? After good news, or bad news? When mom was too high to care or when the money was all gone and it was somehow his fault? Everything had always been his fault.
“I’m Zach,” he said in a calm voice, lowering the medical kit slowly to the floor. He sensed Brody behind him. “And this is Jeff. Can we help you?”
“Yeah,” the boy sputtered, his lips quivering. “You could kill that son of a bitch.”
Chapter 6
Jessie
Halfway through her first period class, Jessie was summoned to the office with a note signed by Miss Chapple, the counselor. With a silent groan Jessie aban
doned her work and slipped out of the classroom.
She entered the office with her head down to avoid the “How are you?” question from the secretaries with their so-sorry smiles and chirpy voices. She paused in Miss Chapple’s doorway. The poster of the striped gray cat dangling by a paw with its sappy “Hang in There” message still hung from her wall above the window, the scraggly aloe plant on the bookshelf still begged for warmer climates. Miss Chapple stood up, beaming, showing the small gap in her front teeth.
“Come in, Jessie,” Miss Chapple said, motioning the chair facing her desk.
Jessie slunk to the chair. Miss Chapple’s brown desk contained a stack of file folders, her desk calendar edged with colorful sticky notes and her oversized pencil-holder packed to the gills with No. 2 pencils, mechanical pencils, highlighters, Hello Kitty pencils with pearly, never-been-used erasers, a Sharpie, a red felt pen like the one her science teacher used to correct their lab reports, and several sparkly gel pens in bright colors.
“I’ve spoken to Mr. Pratt.” Miss Chapple opened a drawer in her desk and retrieved a tub of hand lotion. “He says math was not a problem for you last year.”
“It’s not a problem for me now,” Jessie replied, the words hot on her tongue. So that was what this was about. Who cared about a few missing assignments? She could catch up whenever she wanted to.
Miss Chapple gave her a tight smile. “I went over your standardized test results,” she said, opening the tub. She scooped a blob of lotion into her palms then rubbed it down each finger.
Jessie’s gaze landed on Miss Chapple’s purse sitting open behind her desk on the floor and the butt of a turquoise lighter tucked between her wallet and phone. Jessie wondered if people smoked because lighting something on fire made you feel better.
“I think I know what’s going on,” Miss Chapple said.
Jessie’s skin flashed with heat. She looked into her lap to where the note from the office helper was angled perfectly to fit into the folds of her palm. The tiny red scab where she’d poked herself with the nail at the house on Sunday tickled beneath it.
“You’re bored,” Miss Chapple said.
Jessie risked a look at Miss Chapple, wondering if this was some kind of trick.
“I’m sorry we didn’t catch this before,” she said, her smile growing all the way up to her eyes. “With everything that’s happened . . . ” The tub of lotion had been put away. “Anyways, I’ve arranged your schedule. You start tomorrow at the high school.”
Jessie’s heart bounded into her throat. “What?” Her sense of disorientation returned. “What are you talking about?”
“Your math scores show me that you need more of a challenge. We’re fortunate that the high school is just across the street. You’ll be taking math there from now on.” Miss Chapple handed her the small printout showing her new schedule. First period, bookended by two asterisks, was with a teacher named Darnell. “And Mr. Boudreaux knows to give you a little extra time to get to Health second period,” she added with a wink, as if this was some cute little secret.
Jessie imagined rushing in late to Mr. Boudreaux’s class. He always started with silent journal time. He frowned if you even coughed. Or looked up. He would hate her even more now. Jessie looked again at her schedule. Other classes had been changed. Normally she had math after lunch. Now she had P.E. A groan escaped her lips. P.E. without Cam.
“Your mom and I think this is a wonderful opportunity.”
“You called my mom?” Jessie gritted her teeth.
“Of course.”
“What about Zach?”
Miss Chapple’s shiny pink lips curved downward. “Who is Zach?”
My dad was on her tongue but she stopped herself. Zach wasn’t her dad, and now, he might never be. Jessie dug her toes hard into the carpet. I hate this place.
Miss Chapple came around the desk and handed her a late excuse note. “I know this has been a hard time for you,” she said, stepping dangerously close, as if she might try a hug. “But it’ll get better, okay?”
Jessie slipped backwards out of the chair with the note and hurried out of the room.
Jessie told Cam the news as they rushed to second period Health together.
“Math at the high school?” Cam said. “Shibby.” They passed a group of sixth graders with backpacks so oversized for their shrimpy bodies that they banged against the backs of their knees.
Jessie couldn’t look at him. She was dreading tomorrow morning. Walking through the big, glass doors looking stupid for not knowing where to go. Being swallowed up by the crowd of giants. Was it true they stuffed kids into lockers?
“I’ve got Evan’s longboard,” Jessie said, surprised that she’d found it tucked away on a shelf in their garage. Surprised Evan hadn’t sold it. A locker slammed behind them. Jessie ducked around three tall boys walking like a moving fence then hurried to catch up with Cam. “We’re on for Friday, right?”
Jessie knew that he had a longboard, a hand-me-down from his older brother Nate. “Yeah,” he said with a sigh. He pulled open the door to Health and they slipped into the quiet room.
Jessie found her seat and the bell rang. Behind her, Cam was digging in his bag for a pen. Jessie dropped hers on his desk. Cam was always losing stuff. He took the pen without meeting her eyes, then she dug out another for herself.
In bold blue pen on the whiteboard in the front of the room Mr. Boudreaux’s writing prompt waited. My life would be perfect if . . . Jessie nibbled on the end of her pen, frowning.
My life would be perfect if . . . She looked at the silent room of students bent over their journals, pens and pencils wiggling as they poured their thoughts into their “private” journals. She eyed the old and balding Mr. Boudreaux sitting at his desk, his stern gaze sweeping the room until connecting with hers. He tipped his bony finger downwards, his signal for her to get working.
Jessie stared at the blank page but, as usual, her thoughts refused to gush. Who cared, anyways?
My life would be perfect if what? That Cam would really come to the hill bomb? That Zach would build her a half-pipe? That an earthquake would swallow the high school in the middle of the night so she wouldn’t have to go there tomorrow?
My life would be perfect if my mom got a grip, she wrote, the pen tight in her fingers. Why hadn’t her mom come to the house on Sunday? What was so hard—it was just a house. And Zach was building it for them.
But she had gone for the pills again, and they’d fought about Evan. But something was different this time. Zach had told her he was tired of waiting. The new house will be closed up by December. If you can’t decide by then . . . Decide what?
She didn’t want to think about it. Zach always came back. Eventually.
“Writing utensils down,” Mr. Boudreaux instructed. He erased the prompt as the room echoed with the soft claps of journals closing.
Mr. Boudreaux perched on his stool in the front of the class and opened his textbook to a bookmarked page. “Page one-twenty-four, please.”
Cam passed her a note as she slid her book from her bag. Jessie hid it between her lap and the edge of the textbook now open on her desk and read it.
My life would be perfect if I can ollie the back steps and you can’t.
She grinned but didn’t dare turn around. I’m taking you down, sukkah, she scrawled then re-folded the note.
“Cameron,” Mr. Boudreaux said. “Would you be so kind as to read for us.”
Jessie smirked but kept her head low as Cam began to read, biting her lip to keep from cracking up. The beginning of chapter six started with a very close-up picture of a tiny sperm touching a big, pink egg.
As Cam read, Mr. Boudreaux walked slowly her way until he was standing over her. He opened his palm for the note sitting in her lap. With a silent groan, Jessie gave it up. He placed a lunch detention slip on her desk.
Today, he mouthed.
Chapter 7
Jessie
At lunchtime, Jessie dragged he
r feet to Mr. Boudreaux’s room. He sat at his desk typing at his computer while orchestra music played from its speakers. Rising, he handed her a dictionary bookmarked to a familiar page.
“The complete definition, please,” he said.
Jessie slumped into her seat. She looked back at Mr. Boudreaux to see if he was watching but he had already refocused on his work.
While copying the half-page-long definition of run onto her notebook paper, Jessie thought about the high school math class. She tried to imagine her mom talking on the phone to Miss Chapple and saying, “Why yes, that sounds like a wonderful opportunity.” Instead she played a different scenario, one where Zach stood with her in the office, a protective hand on her shoulder. “I think we’ll keep her where she is for now, thank you.”
But Zach had blown out of their house like a tornado and hadn’t returned. She could call him but knew what he’d say. That he missed her too. That he would see her soon. What he always said but that never told her what she wanted to hear. When? When was he coming back? Sometimes he left for just a few days, one time she hadn’t seen him for two months. The new house will be closed up by December. If you can’t decide by then . . .
After finishing her definition, only ten minutes of lunch remained. “Can I eat now?” she asked. Mr. Boudreaux nodded.
Jessie removed a tuna fish sandwich, a bag of chips, and a juice box. The classroom felt eerie with just the hum from the lights and Boudreaux’s violins.
“What are we doing in class tomorrow?” She took a bite of her sandwich.
Mr. Boudreaux paused from his typing. “We’re starting the egg baby project.”
Jessie chewed her sandwich, contemplating the project she had heard about from older students.